


Natural and Unnatural

by thetreesgrowodd



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Homophobia, Humor, Rumors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-17 00:57:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4646391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thetreesgrowodd/pseuds/thetreesgrowodd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bag End becomes a shelter during a terrible storm, and Frodo finds himself stuck with a bunch of nosy hobbits who want to find out if the rumors they've heard about him being <i>unnatural</i> are true. And how can he keep dear, innocent Sam from getting involved?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've had writer's block recently, so I thought I'd try revising and posting something I originally wrote a while back.
> 
> Warning for a mild attempted sexual assault in a later chapter.

For nearly a week now in Hobbiton, there had been an odd heaviness in the air, the muggy sort of feeling that caused many a hobbit to stare searchingly at the horizon for storm clouds with one hand shielding their eyes from the sun. They formed groups in front of homes and shops, speaking in low, earnest voices about the weather, and for once it wasn't just small talk. Lasses fanned themselves and wore their lightest petticoats (or, for the more daring among them, none at all) and fussed over why the washing was taking so long to dry.

One afternoon, a sudden wind gusted through the open window of Frodo Baggins' study at Bag End, scattering papers and envelopes like a child scatters fallen leaves. Frodo shut the window firmly and frowned as he gathered everything back up. He'd never had that problem before, and it would be a shame to have to keep that window closed. Sometimes he and Sam chatted through it while Sam gardened.

So old Mr. Fleetfoot and old Mr. Drycreek were called upon. They were two of the oldest hobbits around, and they had individually been predicting the weather for decades. Each considered himself the sole expert on nuances of weather forecasting. Whenever they met, they argued heatedly about their forecasts — and indeed, they seemed to enjoy it so much that some Hobbits wondered if they didn't disagree on purpose.

But this time, the two had a long and unusually civil discussion, then announced that they agreed with each other _unreservedly..._ just this once. The worst storm in a generation was approaching the Shire.

An emergency town meeting was called that muggy afternoon. Everyone agreed that the weakest and most vulnerable (the children and the elders, and some of the more delicate lasses) should stay somewhere safe during the storm. But where would they find a place for them to stay?

Frodo stood up and announced, "I would like to offer Bag End as shelter to anyone who wishes it," and his words were met with a cheer. It made perfect sense, after all — it was nearly empty (as Frodo lived alone), sturdily constructed, and on higher ground than most of the town. They all agreed that young Mr. Baggins was such a generous and trustworthy hobbit who would surely take care of those in need. (Which he _was_ , although it wasn't his only motivation. Privately, Frodo knew he could either offer his home graciously now, or face a crowd of rain-soaked hobbits on his doorstep later.)

This way, Frodo had time to prepare and could consider all that it would mean, having a group of hobbits in his home for what could be days. What would happen when boredom began to set in? Would he find nosy hobbits poking around in the cellar, looking for Bilbo's supposed stash of gold coins and precious stones? Would he be always running after shrieking children, trying to pry his fragile old books and antiques from their hands? Would he have to endure long, well-meaning lectures about how to escape Mr. Bilbo's eccentric shadow, and wasn't it about time to settle down with a wife?

So Frodo was relieved when Samwise Gamgee vowed to stay at Bag End before, during, and after the storm to help him out as much as was needed. Sam would undoubtedly be a great help controlling the group, and if nothing else, Frodo knew he'd have someone around whose company he enjoyed.

Sam helped Frodo stock Bag End with supplies — they'd best have _twice_ the amount they reckoned they'd need, the ever-practical Sam insisted — as well as gathering all the bedding and linens and making sure they were washed and aired, and otherwise seeing to the housework.

But even as he did, he couldn't help fretting over the _outside_ — the garden. Sam went over and over in his mind ways to save the garden. Whenever he had a spare moment, he spent it there. He went home long after the sunset, only to come back as soon as it was light because he couldn't take his mind off of it. Sam harvested and transplanted whatever he could. For once, he didn't even protest (much) over Mr. Frodo helping him with some of the manual labor. Frodo wanted to save his lovely garden almost as much as Sam did.

Then, one evening, heavy clouds rolled in and an oddly-colored twilight set in early. The air was heavy and still and smelled strange. Sam put his tools away with a feeling of finality, then found Mr. Frodo (who was rooting around the back of a cupboard and crossing things off of a list. He had been making a lot of lists recently).

"Well, that's it. I've done all I can for my poor garden. What happens happens. Nature will have her way, and I've made my peace with it. If you'll excuse me now, Mr. Frodo, I'll go have a bath and a good long sleep and you'll have me here tomorrow good as new, with no more distractions, ready to do what needs doing."

"Thank you, Sam. You're a good lad and a great help to me." Frodo smiled. "Aside from a few details, I think we've prepared as much as we can." He glanced over his list. "We'll take care of the rest tomorrow. But look at those thick clouds! I do hope you arrive before the rain!"


	2. Chapter 2

True to his word, Sam helped Frodo with the final preparations in the morning — locking away anything that needed locking away (items of value, as well as anything at all within reach of a curious hobbit that might look tempting to paw through, which could be just as bothersome as stealing), dusting and sweeping out the guest rooms, and moving furniture around in an attempt to make the space accommodate more hobbits than it was designed to.

The first cautious shelter-seekers came knocking on the door moment before the rain began to fall. And as the rain increased, so did the number of hobbits that arrived.

There were children and elders, of course, as well as many pretty young lasses, whose fathers and husbands dropped them off before rushing home to join their neighbors in sandbagging and fortifying their homes and shops.

Frodo knew, or at least strongly suspected, that he himself was another reason that Bag End had been so welcome as a shelter, why even the most cautious fathers and jealous husbands of the lasses weren't worried about letting them spend a few nights here out of their sight with bachelor Baggins. Gossip got back to Frodo, even if the speakers didn't mean it to. He knew what they said about him. They'd said it about Bilbo too. Maybe any unwed hobbit bachelor over a certain age was subject to the speculation, especially if he didn't show an interest in courting any lasses. 

Perhaps Frodo should have done something over the years to dispel the rumors — stage a drunken grope with a pretty barmaid some busy night at the tavern, or parade around town with a lass on his arm. But he hadn't, and by now the rumors had circulated for so long that they were taken as fact.

In addition to the swarms of the lovely fairer sex, the two old weather-readers arrived as well, speaking animatedly to anyone who would listen about their aching bones and the odd behavior of beetles and all the other signs that told them what was coming.

As the afternoon wore on, the storm grew louder and fiercer. Each time Frodo opened the smial door to let more guests in, cold wind blew rain in sideways. They ran out of dry towels, and Sam strung up multiple clotheslines for them in one of the back rooms and stoked up the fire. The wind ripped the shutters off of one of the parlor's windows, and poor Sam had to bundle up and go out to board it up. There was a leak in the kitchen and another in Frodo's study (fortunately, only the rug got wet and none of his books were ruined). Frodo put pans under them, then started obsessively checking room by room for any more leaks.

Frodo had just circled back to the parlor, where the guests had assembled (with a cheery, party-like atmosphere) when he heard an argument, being shouted above all the other voices:

"Nightfall! The real storm will begin at nightfall!"

"Midnight, you buffoon! The real storm won't hit us till Midnight!"

Sam stepped up right then with a distraction it the form of a tray of pies and beer, and the argument was forgotten (just in time, as old Mr. Fleetfoot had been raising his cane and old Mr. Drycreek had been in the middle of an insult about Mr. Fleetfoot's mother). Sam glanced up to meet Frodo's eyes across the room and they smiled. Frodo admired how smoothly Sam handled such things, but then Sam did have a lot of siblings; he had some experience keeping grumpy, petty bickering under control.

It was the comment about the _real storm_ coming later that worried Frodo the most. It seemed quite like a real storm to him already, and it was only mid-afternoon. Was it really going to get worse from here?

*

That night, Frodo learned what their definition of a _real storm_ was (although no one could quite say later if it'd had struck closer to nightfall or midnight). Everyone had eaten and then eaten some more, and had smoked their fill of pipe-weed. A few parlor games had been halfheartedly attempted, but then abandoned. It was late, but no one had gone to their bedrooms. A few people tried making conversation, but everyone just sat together, nervously, as the great tree over the hill creaked and groaned, pebbles and twigs were tossed against the door and windows by the wind, and the thunder made the knickknacks on the shelves rattle.

After the massive tree made a particularly alarming sound, Sam leaned close to Frodo, looking at him intensely in the light from the fireplace. "What if the tree gets uprooted?" Sam whispered.

Frodo just shook his head slightly at Sam, unable to answer. He was busy privately calling himself a fool for ever believing Bag End to be as secure as he had. The massive roots came right down into the smial, after all. If it went, it would take the walls with it.

But Frodo was the host. It was his job to take care of these hobbits. He and Sam got more plates of cakes from the kitchen, and went around to the guests offering them along with reassuring platitudes. The cakes, at least, were well-received.

*

A few hours before dawn, exhaustion had finally overpowered most of them, although none had wanted to leave the comfort of the group. Frodo shook himself out of his half-doze where he sat on the floor and helped Sam bring out blankets and pillows for the sleepers on the couches and floor, and those who were still awake covered those who were asleep, and then settled back down again. The storm was as loud as ever, though, and several still sat or lay silently with their eyes open.

Sam stoked the fire, and came back to his place beside Frodo. It didn't feel right to leave the guests and sleep in his own bed, so Frodo stretched out where he was to sleep.

*

When Frodo woke up he had a feeling that it wasn't yet dawn. The fire had burned low, bathing the room in an even, orange light. Still groggy, he realized he had been sleeping in an awkward position and had a pain in his lower back. When he shifted, he realized with a shock that the bulky, warm thing he was lying on top of was a body — Sam's, to be specific.

As Frodo raised his head — which had been cushioned on Sam's belly — Sam jolted awake. The two made eye contact, confused and embarrassed. _Oh no_ , Frodo's arm was draped across Sam's hips. He sat up quickly and moved away.

Across the room, there were quiet giggles and whispers.


	3. Chapter 3

"S-sorry," Frodo whispered, rubbing the back of his neck, making a show of how uncomfortable and _obviously unintentional_ his position had been. He couldn't meet Sam's eyes again.

"S'alright, Mr. Frodo," Sam whispered. He didn't look at Frodo again either.

Frodo lay back down, this time with plenty of space between them, facing away from Sam to hide his face. The room was quiet now, aside from the sound of heavy, steady rain, and none of the other hobbits stirred, but Frodo knew some of them were just feigning sleep. He could just imagine what gossip would say later:

_"Snuggled up with him, right there in front of everyone, bold as you please!"_

_"No! Not that gardener boy he has?"_

_"That's him. Ol' Gaffer Gamgee'd better keep his son away from Baggins, before he_ takes up his unnatural ways, _if you know what I mean. I've always said so."_

_"The Gaffer has a both soft spot and a blind spot where the Bagginses are concerned, and it'll bring no good to his family."_

Frodo heard Sam get to his feet. He crossed the room, picking his way through the sleeping forms to put some more logs on the fire, before padding back over and lying down again with a sleepy sigh.

Frodo curled into a ball. He couldn't afford to be so careless. He didn't care so much for himself and his own reputation. He was used to being different, after being orphaned so young, and hearing the stories that were thrown around town about his parents, and then being the outsider in a crowded home overflowing with his distant relations, before finally going off to voluntarily live with Bilbo, _Mad Baggins, the Oddest Hobbit Who Ever Lived_. Still, despite thinking him strange, his neighbors still treated Frodo with respect — at least to his face. After all, and he used his wealth and position to help others in Hobbiton, so no one wanted to get on his bad side.

But Frodo wouldn't bring any of it upon Sam. Maybe he should tell Sam that they should stop associating with each other aside from things that were strictly essential between a gardener and his employer. Surely, if Sam realized the danger to his own reputation, he would have already done so on his own. Oh — Frodo would miss him so badly, though. He so enjoyed chatting with Sam, or stepping out into the garden to see what he was working on, or inviting him in for some pipe-weed and tea. But it would never do to have Sam become the object of such slander as well.

*

That day went more calmly than the previous. Meals were served. Many of the guests retired to their own rooms for naps in the afternoon. Conversation picked up again. They were closer to normal, although the storm was still obviously strong outside, and the fear and worry of the night before was still fresh in their minds.

Late in the afternoon, the storm slacked. The two old hobbits happily declared that it was the eye of the storm. And a few exhausted hobbits came to the door to wearily deliver the news that, although there had been plenty of damage, they'd heard of no deaths from the weather. This brought up a cheer inside of Bag End, and Sam brought some strong ale for the cold, weary messengers, who stayed only long enough to drink them before preparing for the next wave of the storm.

Sam purposefully avoided looking out at the garden when the door was open, Frodo noticed. He'd gotten a glimpse himself, and as torn up as everything looked from there, he hoped Sam wasn't agonizing over it all when there was nothing to be done about it.

The mild eye of the storm lasted into the early evening. Most of the guests went to sleep in the guest rooms, but a small group sat up in the parlor again, with an unspoken sense between them of being the lookouts, the ones who would stay awake to watch for what would happen, for the inevitable onslaught. Frodo was with them, feeling that as the host he should remain in a central location in case anyone needed something or anything happened. But he was very tired and eventually dozed off on a couch, dreamily half-hearing the quiet conversation of those who sat in the room... one of the voices was Sam's, and it was comforting...

The full force of the storm hit again in the morning, just as loud and intimidating as last time, although the anxiety level seemed lower now that they'd been through it once without major catastrophe. It went on all day, and the inhabitants of Bag End grew restless and bored and on edge from the rumblings and howling outside.

Frodo was restless as well. He had an odd sensation that something bad was going to happen, but he couldn't get a sense of where it was coming from or what it would be. 

Ale and wine were brought out to relieve the tedium. It was another late night, rather loud and rowdy indoors, and even by the time the improvised party had died down, the storm was still going strong.

Frodo's creeping, crawling uneasiness persisted, and drove him to the walk-in pantry in the middle of the night with a lantern in one hand and one of his lists in the other, to make sure they had enough supplies left, although he was sure he and Sam had checked and double checked beforehand.

On all fours, Frodo rummaged around on a low shelf. That was when he heard footsteps behind him, and the click of the pantry door closing.


	4. Chapter 4

Frodo looked over his shoulder at the door, holding up his lantern. Miss Birchbark stood there, staring at him. Frodo scrambled to his feet and laughed nervously. He didn't know her well. She was younger than him, a single lass with a pretty face — a bit flushed at the moment — and a beautifully rounded body. Her body language was coy, with her back arched to push her belly forward. Frodo stared at it, stupidly. He'd had a bit to drink that evening himself, and was having a hard time making sense of things. She held the pose for several heartbeats, silently.

"Miss Birchbark. Is there... anything you need?" Frodo asked, remembering his manners.

The look in her eyes worried him. So did the fact that she didn't reply. Instead she just crossed the pantry to him, a little unsteady but very intent.

"Miss Birchbark... Miss Birchbark!" Frodo raised his hands to defend himself, but she was already there, leaning against him heavily and smelling of booze. Frodo's head spun — goodness, had he drunk that much? — as she grasped both of his wrists firmly and smashed her mouth against his in a drunken attempt at a kiss. His back was against the shelves and he was trapped. Frodo tried to free his hands to gently push her away, but she forced his wrists out to the sides and against the shelves so aggressively that the lantern slipped out of his fingers. It hit the floor with a clatter, but didn't go out.

Frodo turned his face away, first to one side, then the other, but she was always there, giggling in puffs of breath against his face. "Miss Birchbark! You've got to stop this!" he managed to get out. In response, she released one of his wrists to clumsily grab at the buttons of his shirt. He could fight his way free if he had no other choice, he thought, but she was a lass and he was a gentlehobbit it just didn't seem right.

"I don't want to hurt you, but you must stop." Frodo tried to twist away, ducking under the arm that still held his other wrist, heading toward the door, but she was faster than he expected, and stronger as well, as she grabbed him dragged him to the ground.

_Oh dear_ , Frodo though, _this is getting out of hand_. She was _heavy_ and she knew how to use her weight to keep him from getting back up. Frodo's build had been referred to by well-meaning people as _boyish_ (or to the few who knew of and admired the Elves — just Bilbo and Sam, in other words — _Elven_ ). It was really just a kinder way of saying he was slim, lacking the pleasant rounded softness that was admired in both genders of hobbits... and which Miss Birchbark had abundantly. He had thought he was being gentlemanly by not putting his full strength into fighting her off, but suddenly he realized that she had the advantage, and he really couldn't get away. She pinned Frodo quite easily, after roughly turning him over onto his back, and pulled at his clothing.

"Please listen—" Frodo began, but she bent down to cover his lips with hers again. Frodo knew that if he couldn't fight her off, then he should be able to _think_ his way out of this, but his mind felt too muddled and sluggish from surprise and ale and lack of sleep to come up with anything, other than the thought that maybe if he played dead, she'd lose interest and leave him alone. _Oh dear_ , her clumsy pawing was actually successfully getting his clothing open —

Suddenly, the pantry door swung open from the outside. Miss Birchbark broke off the kiss with a wet sound and a scandalized gasp. Frodo had closed his eyes tight and couldn't see who it was, but they seemed to be standing there in stunned silence. Oh, what kind of gossip about Frodo would get around now?

"I-i'm sorry," a familiar, shaky voice said, barely above a whisper. "I heard a noise, and I... well... I'll be out of your way now."

" _Sam!_ Help me!" Frodo called frantically, hearing the door close again, as Miss Birchbark made shushing noises at him.

There was a pause. Then door opened again with a bang. "Get off him!" Sam said sharply, grabbing her by the upper arms more roughly than he normally would have done to a lass and pulling her to her feet.

Frodo got to his knees as her weight was off of him, and started buttoning his trousers, face burning.

"What's wrong with you?" Sam barked at her. "Get out of here — Leave Mr. Frodo alone! After all he's done for you, taking you in!"

"Well, now I know. It _is_ true. He's just as queer and unnatural as they all say," she said, haughtily. "Not a bit interested in lasses. I just wanted to find out for myself, that's all." She smoothed her skirts and walked out.

Sam closed the door behind her, and leaned against it, growling a curse.

Frodo was still kneeling on the floor, staring blankly at the floor, trying to button his shirt with shaking hands. It was all going crooked... oh, there seemed to be missing buttons now. "She just followed me in here, and then she... and she's too heavy..." Frustrated, he stopped and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his disgust catching up with him.

Sam stepped over to him and knelt down beside him. "Let me help you with that, Mr. Frodo." He began doing up Frodo's shirt, despite the damage that had been done to it. "I'll mend this for you tomorrow. Don't you worry about them buttons; I'll find them."

Frodo caught Sam's hands as they reached the top button and stilled them. "Thank you, Sam, but you'd best get back out there, quickly before... in case... anyone catches us both in here. If she tells them... if anyone saw you come in here, they might think..."

"Begging your pardon, Mr. Frodo, but it don't matter to me what them nosy hobbits think. It's you I'm worried about."

"No. Sam, don't you understand? You mustn't do this sort of thing anymore!" Frodo pushed Sam's hands away. "Go back out there right now, before anyone thinks that we're... It's my own fault. I've allowed our relationship to become entirely too casual. I enjoyed your company with no regard for how improper it was — or how it would appear to outside eyes."

"But Mr. Frodo —"

"Sam, this has to stop. You must keep your distance from me! That's an order!"


	5. Chapter 5

Sam's eyes widened slightly, looking stunned. He stood and put his hand on the doorknob, then hesitated there. "Well, now," Sam began slowly, "The Gaffer'd likely tan my hide if he ever found out I didn't follow an order from a Baggins. But Mr. Bilbo told me I was always free to ask him to explain his orders more clear-like, especially if he weren't making no sense. So, Mr. Frodo, I'm going to respectfully ask you to explain this to me, so I can understand it."

Frodo cringed, not wanting to have to talk about things. But of course, level-headed Sam was right to question him about this instead of just blindly following an order that would destroy their relationship. And Bilbo had given him such characteristically sound advice. Bilbo and Sam were two of the people Frodo loved most in all the world, and he'd just been reminded of why. He missed Bilbo terribly for a moment, like a scared child in the dark, longing for a grownup. And soon, Sam would be lost to him as well. He deserved, at least, to understand that it was for Sam's own good.

"There's a rumor about me, Sam. That's what Miss Birchbark was alluding to just now. What happened between the two of us here will be spread about as gossip in no time. I doubt even the storm can slow it. It will be interpreted as confirmation of... what is said about me." Not meeting Sam's eyes, Frodo righted the lantern slowly.

Sam knelt down, next to Frodo. "Frankly, Mr. Frodo, I've already known about it. And whether or not this rumor is true, I don't care. You're still my Mr. Frodo, and I'm still your Samwise Gamgee, and no one else has any right to make us change that."

"You'd heard it then?" Frodo asked, embarrassed.

"I told the last lad who mentioned it in my hearing that he'd best get out of my sight and go stick his head in the pig trough. And then Mr. Merry, who happened to be nearby, punched him right in the gob." Sam grinned. "He had no right talking vulgar about anyone, let alone you. But folk say a lot of things, and no hobbit with any common sense should take any of it seriously."

Frodo was touched, but worried that Sam a bit ignorant of the workings of the world. "But they _do_ , Sam, should your name be dragged into it and your good reputation sullied, I won't forgive myself."

"Let them say what they want." Sam waved his hand. "Let them try to sully it. I'll do the punching next time, if I have to. But I won't back off from you none, not ever, Mr. Frodo. And certainly not over something as meaningless as tongues wagging."

"But Sam —"

"You can sack me if you like, Mr. Frodo, but I'll still turn up on your doorstep, ready for a chat or a cuppa or a pipe. I'll still take care of your garden and look in on you. You'll have to chase me off with a broom like a stray cat, and even then I'll come back. You hear me?" 

"I... yes. Thank you, Sam." Frodo let Sam help him to his feet at last.

"Are you unharmed? Ready to head back out?" Sam retrieved the lantern and glanced Frodo over. "I'll keep that Birchbark lass away from you from now on so she can't cause you no more bother. She stirs up trouble and everyone knows it, so don't you pay her no mind. And soon as this storm lets up, I'll get them all out of Bag End, and that's a promise."

"I do believe I'm about ready for the guests to go home now," Frodo said, wryly.

*

Two days later, Frodo walked along the street beside Sam, thinking how odd it was to see the shops so crowded with grim-faced, subdued hobbits. They silently took in the litter of shingles, leaves and tree branches on the street, the shops' signs hanging lopsided, the broken windows, and the muddy lakes that had formed in the low lying areas. And hobbits everywhere, talking in somber groups, or taking the debris away in carts and wagons, or coming out of shops weighed down with supplies.

Frodo felt very fortunate that all he'd lost to the storm had been parts of his garden... and that was bad enough, because dear Sam had put so much of his heart into it. It would take a long time to reverse the damage, nursing some plants back to health and regrowing others from seeds. But if anyone was up to the challenge, it was Sam.

Still, Bag End had survived the storm with only minor damage, and had kept all of her inhabitants (even those less welcome by the end) dry and safe. Everyone had gone home at last yesterday, with various amounts of prodding from Sam. Frodo had found that he needed a few supplies from the shops, but more than that, he had to come out here and see it all for himself. And Sam, of course, had come with him.

They reached the general shop and Sam hurried into the familiar aisles, while Frodo hung back, looking around and taking in the atmosphere. There were knots of hobbits, discussing the storm is hushed voices. Further over, a lass with a handkerchief pressed over her mouth told a friend about the damage her smial had suffered. The storekeeper, sympathetic but with his patience wore thin, was explaining to customer after customer that they had run out of some things and it couldn't be helped and he was very sorry but everyone would have to just make do for now.

Frodo purchased the items Sam had selected (some were for Sam's family and he tried to pay for them separately, himself, but Frodo wouldn't hear of it), and they both carried them and headed back toward Bag End. Sam had already apologized for Frodo helping him with this, but Frodo knew it was important and that he was very lucky that the Gaffer hadn't insisted Sam come home and help the rest of them repair the mess there.

The pair walked in silence, hearing snatches of conversation — hobbits wondering what they'd done to deserve such terrible things, afraid and worried about what the future would bring and if they'd ever feel safe again.

"They've all got it wrong," Sam said at last, shaking his head.

Frodo looked at Sam as they walked, curious.

"What I mean is that they're all actin' like they've been betrayed somehow, as if this were done as an attack on them. Like it's unfair that this sort o' thing should happen." Sam paused for a moment. "I had a lot of time to think about all this beforehand when I was working in the garden, and during the storm when the wind was too loud to let me sleep at night. Even mighty storms like this one, they're all part of nature's way. They're unusual, but they're not wrong. I hear these folk say that it would be better if these things never had to happen, but it's a waste to think that way. Because they do happen and none of us can change it."

Sam fell silent and Frodo didn't know what to say. Sam glanced at him cautiously, and saw an interested and thoughtful look in Frodo's eyes. So he continued. "Nature is what it is. We act like we know what it is and what it should be like, like we can control it. But we don't. It does what it does, even when we don't understand it, and that don't make it wrong..." Sam trailed off.

Frodo smiled. "I know some hobbits who would benefit from your way of thinking, Sam, even those who don't have to deal with the whims of nature in their daily work like you do. You really have some excellent observations."

"Aw, no I don't, Mr. Frodo," Sam said, suddenly bashful. "I got a lot of that from my old Gaffer, and Mr. Bilbo, and even from you. Besides it's just common sense. Things are what they are. Sometimes we can't understand why. Maybe to the plants this ain't no disaster, maybe this is just part o' how they grow. Their dead branches get knocked down and their acorns get scattered farther than they could have otherwise... they all get a good thorough soakin'... and they all go on growin', and all is right."

"The silver lining..." Frodo mused.

"Exactly. A bit less time judgin' and a bit more making the best of what is... and maybe there's a blessing underneath, a beauty folk don't see if they're not willing to look for it." Sam shifted the packages in his arms to free one hand. He extended it toward Frodo. "I know it's there."

Not caring if anyone saw, Frodo reached out to take it.


End file.
